


Close Calls

by roselightsaber



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-24
Updated: 2016-12-24
Packaged: 2018-09-11 14:33:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8987818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roselightsaber/pseuds/roselightsaber
Summary: Looters hit the Temple of the Whills. A little exploratory piece on Baze and Chirrut's relationships with violence and killing as spiritual people.





	

“Five. Four outside, one probably already down in the main chamber.“

“I know that,” Chirrut barks back, as if surmising the bandits’ movements from sound, from vibrations in the stone beneath his feet, is mere child’s play. "I’m blind, not deaf. They came in on swoops. Not a subtle operation.”

How, then, did one of them manage to slip into the heart of the temple?! Baze wants to ask. But there isn’t time for the usual grumbled response, and he can only inwardly remind himself to get the other man back later. “Get down there and figure out how he got in. I’ll deal with the rest of them.”

“Go with the Force,” He whispers with a smile, sincere though the fact that such cliches annoy the other is a bonus, and he squeezes the other’s shoulder briefly before taking off stealthily down the hall. The route is so deeply ingrained in his mind that he needs no guidance, not from Baze, not from his staff, not even from the Force this time, at least not until he hears distant voices. Possibly it’s nothing at all--locals, stopping in for prayer or for shelter--or even another Guardian to send down the other hall for backup. But the vibration of the voices hit him in an unfamiliar place, leave him feeling uneasy, as if he can’t trust his senses as far as he thought he could. It’s them, he’s suddenly sure, whoever is looting the crystals, and there’s more than one already this far into the temple.

He feels the pressurized blast from Baze’s repeater cannon before he hears it, and knows there’s no time to waste. Uncertain just what he’ll find now, he breaks into a sprint, staff clutched in both hands at the ready as he barrels toward the kyber crystal chamber.

Outside, Baze has no time for questions. He fires on the presumptive getaway driver first. There had been a time when blasting away at someone on sight would have at least given him pause, perhaps inspired some introspection on how far he was willing to go to protect this place. Not now. He’s killed for less, and the life of this idiot, waiting for the rest of his gang out in the open with a fearlessness Baze almost respects, isn’t worth sending a message of weakness out to other opportunists. This is how Jedha is now: every man his own faction, no way to escape, and few ways to survive that don’t involve shooting first.

So that’s one down, and the explosion that rises--from explosives on the gangster himself or ignition of the swoop’s fuel tank, he’s not sure--takes out both of the getaway vehicles. But that’s only one of the looters, so where the hell did they take off to? On cue, a blaster bolt whizzes past his ear, so close that he smells singed hair. Shit, he curses, spinning around and firing before he realizes he’s doing it. They’re fast--and they know the area. That thought sends a fleeting worry across his mind; Chirrut’s best weapons are quickness and knowledge of the temple, and he doesn’t want to think about anyone being even this close to a match for him. But there’s no time for doubt, and he snipes the attacker off an alarmingly high temple wall and dashes towards him as he tumbles to the ground.

“Ah, shit,” He grumbles aloud, seeing just what he’d suspected--the dead man was wearing a jetpack. Barreling in on swoops from the front had masked the sound, even the vibrations. So simple, so obvious in retrospect. Not only could they get high into the temple quickly, but they could tangle up the senses of the warrior they knew would be their biggest problem. Another detonation rings out on the other side of the temple, then the echoing thumb of lightbow fire. Reinforcements, Baze thinks with a faint smile as he runs toward the sound. How nice it is to have someone else on my side.

The blast shakes the entire east side of the temple, even down in the depths of the kyber stores. But it came from up high, and Chirrut can only smile. “Thought you were so clever,” He calls out to whoever or whatever he’s approaching, swinging his staff to one hand and walking closer with the casual air of a man who’s already won the fight. “But it seems someone has given away your sneaky entrance by trying to blow it up!”

Shouts ring out and Chirrut drops to the floor before he knows what he’s avoiding. One blaster, something that smells old but sounds like it’s been souped up beyond recognition. No--there are two, both custom, both awfully disjointed and cobbled together. He feels a pang of regret. These two are certainly Jedha locals, probably grew up poor and desperate just like him. But their paths had diverged. He whips upward and clocks the first shooter under the jaw, jerks back and strikes the other in the solar plexus. It’s truly a shame, but they’d made their choices. One, two, he trips the first with a quick, sure foot, and he’s out cold--but not dead--after a strike to the back of the head. The other seems startled, bringing on another pang of regret. He’s young, had no idea what he was getting into. Probably joined up with these criminals just to survive. Mercy on his mind, Chirrut makes it quick.

The younger man gets close. He’s fast, and his aim is sharp--sharp enough to graze Chirrut’s shoulder before he’s down, a blow to the head and a whispered prayer sending him out of the world. Chirrut sighs deeply. There’s still the other; Chirrut knows he’s only unconscious. He prays again, aloud now that there’s no one to hear.

“I am one with the Force, the Force is with me. All is as the Force wills it.” He kneels, deftly removes the bag of pilfered kyber from the man’s belt, then snaps his neck with icy, practiced precision. “But I’m sorry it’s come to this.”

In a moment the two Guardians are both headed for the source of the explosion again, Baze circling the outside of the temple with guns drawn, Chirrut dashing up the winding stone steps with his staff pointing out in front of him. More shots ring out and he presses himself to the stone wall as the smell of burning ozone zings past much too close. Chirrut reaches out and feels the approach, ducks past the charging man out the hole in the wall. He counts silently to himself as he hears the man whirl around to follow. Three, two...the unpleasant sound of staff meeting skull rings out and the looter topples straight over the narrow outer ledge and thumped to the ground inches from Baze’s feet.

“Is this for me?” He calls out to the other with entirely too much amusement, squinting up at the rather impressive form of the other guardian perched like a gargoyle at the end of the ledge, sun blazing dramatically behind him. He tilts his head like an extremely disapproving bird.

“There’s still another,” He replies, clearly trying to focus on footfalls or engine noise or anything that might give it away, but the blast has thrown the temple into chaos, clerics and visitors and guardians bustling both to safety and towards danger to help.

“Must have gone in that way,” Baze says, gesturing towards the caved in wall behind Chirrut though the other couldn’t see. “Watch it. One of them had a jetpack--hey!”

Chirrut freezes, thinking his companion had spotted their last adversary. “What?!”

“Did you get shot?!” He sounds more disbelieving than worried.

“Barely!” And he disappears back into the temple, though he can still hear Baze’s shouts of dismay.

“They shot you?! Bring him out here when you find him!” Chirrut shakes his head. This is no laughing matter, but that complaining old gundark managed to put a smile on his face even in their darkest moments. Of course, he knows that Baze means it, too, and he can’t help but worry about that streak of wrath in his partner even if he often errs on the side of recklessness himself.

It doesn’t take long to find the last man standing. Chirrut can feel darkness echoing around the kyber. It’s not a sensation he can explain, but it’s just as clear and strong as hearing or touch. The crystals don’t have sentience, exactly, but there’s an undeniable feeling of wrongness when they’re in the wrong hands--or about to be. Chirrut traces the feeling on its way back down the staircase, feels the thief’s intent, but feels too his fear, as if perhaps he is tied up in something worse than just selling off the stones out of desperation. Regret washes over Chirrut again. Has he become so cold as to ignore the complications of the world? The gray areas? After all, he and Baze had abandoned the moral high ground, to say the least, many years ago.

But there’s no time--there’s never time. And when he has the time, it squeezes his soul too tightly to think about it for long.

The last man never reaches the central chamber. He gets off just one shot at Chirrut before the other slams the weapon from his hand with a quick spin of his staff before pinning him to the wall, his small frame concealing a startling strength. “Who sent you?” The bandit spits something back in a growling dialect Chirrut could just barely decode, but the man’s disinterest in sharing was clear enough. “I’m afraid you cannot leave, my friend, but you can begin to make amends--”

He feels Baze’s heavy footfalls approaching. “What are you doing? Are you keeping him?”

Chirrut’s captive seizes the moment and slams the staff hard against its owner, ducking out of his hold and striking Chirrut more with surprise than any particular amount of force. “Tell me who--” He swears loudly in his native dialect as he feels Baze ready a shot just a beat before he does it, and the bandit collapses in a heap that Chirrut is almost thankful he can’t see (the ripple in the Force is more than enough).

“We don’t have time for that,” Baze snaps, the very refrain that Chirrut has adopted himself. “You’re too soft.”

Chirrut shakes his head. “I wish that were true.”

**Author's Note:**

> Shoutout to iwritesometimes @ Tumblr for this prompt!! This was gonna be a little short thing then I remembered I love writing Star Wars action shenanigans and it got completely out of hand.


End file.
